


The Badger and the Lion

by KookieDoh



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: #TheSortingHatIsAlwaysRight, Alternate Universe - Hogwarts, Angst, Beater John Watson, Boys In Love, Chaser Sally Donovan, Fluff, Gryffindor Greg Lestrade, Gryffindor John Watson, Hufflepuff Molly Hooper, Hufflepuff Sherlock Holmes, Keeper Greg Lestrade, M/M, Magic, Quidditch, Sherlock is actually an emotional boi, Slytherin Irene Adler, Slytherin Jim Moriarty, The Yarders are basically the Gryffindor Quidditch team because I love that sport, i wish it was real, rated t for some language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-21
Updated: 2020-05-21
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:55:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,876
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24305497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KookieDoh/pseuds/KookieDoh
Summary: Harry Potter AU - Instead of being sorted into Ravenclaw, with his great intellect, or Slytherin, with his resourceful, cunning ways, or even Gryffindor, with his penchant for running into danger, Sherlock Holmes is sorted into Hufflepuff. Most other students (and Sherlock himself) just assume that the Sorting Hat must have just made a mistake, but the Hat is proven right once again when Sherlock Holmes and John Watson, a Gryffindor in the same year, start to become friends.
Relationships: Mentioned John Watson/Mary Morstan, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, one-sided Sherlock Holmes/Irene Adler
Kudos: 72





	The Badger and the Lion

**Author's Note:**

> Greetings and salutations, Earth-dwellers. I have emerged from my cave to gift you, humans, with this random fic that I dreamt up one night. I was just thinking about how our boi Sherlock is actually a huge softie and would do anything for Johnny boy. I also happened to watch the Philosopher's Stone that evening, and my sleeping brain somehow mashed the two together and this fic was born.
> 
> Enjoy :)

###  Year 1

**5:58 pm Sept 1, 1983. Two years after the death of James and Lily Potter, and the fall of the Dark Lord.**

_ The Great Hall is smaller than I expected. _

Eleven-year-old Sherlock Holmes stood among the chittering gaggle of first-years in front of the staff high table in the Great Hall of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. The other first-years were buzzing with nerves, shuffling and whispering, creating an uncomfortable claustrophobic feeling in Sherlock’s chest. He rolled his eyes as someone behind him started praying fervently under their breath.  _ Idiots,  _ he thought. 

The stern witch in tartan robes (whom Sherlock hadn’t bothered to remember her name, McDonnel or McGall or whatever) called the first child forward. “Anderson, Phillip.” A scruffy-looking half-blood stepped forward, stumbling inelegantly over to the stool McSomething had indicated to. Sherlock narrowed his eyes in contempt.  _ The fool can’t even walk straight,  _ he grumbled internally. The curly-haired boy had run into Anderson on the Hogwarts Express earlier, and the two of them had immediately formed a distinct dislike for one another. Sherlock for Anderson’s apparent lack of intelligence, and Anderson for Sherlock’s biting insults. The resulting argument had solidified Anderson’s dim-wittedness in Sherlock’s mind immediately.

“RAVENCLAW!”

Sherlock’s mouth dropped open in shock.  _ Him? In Ravenclaw? _ He thought incredulously.  _ That imbecile can’t even tell a hippogriff from a thestral. _

His mind continued to wander until a nudge from behind him startled him out of his thoughts. A mousy little girl, the one who was praying  _ \- muggle-born, working-class family, socially awkward -  _ whispered to him urgently, “Go! It’s your turn.” He nodded and strode over to the stool, dramatically flaring out his robes as he took a seat. He glimpsed a teacher in black robes raise his eyebrow slightly at his dramatics out of the corner of his eye, before the hat was lowered onto his head, obscuring his vision.

_ Hmm,  _ hummed a voice in his head,  _ another Holmes, yes, I remember your brother. Sharp as a blade, he was. With the ambition to match. It was quite a decision I had to make whether to put him Ravenclaw or Slytherin,  _ mused the Sorting Hat.

_ Yes, yes. I know where he ended up already. You’re sorting  _ me _ , remember? Not my brother,  _ snapped Sherlock mentally. 

_ Oh ho! What’s this? Young Holmes has some bite to him! Hmmm, maybe Gryffindor is not so far fetched after all. Of course, your mind is spectacular, I would expect nothing less from a Holmes. But there is also a shrewdness to you too: some cunning and underhanded thoughts roaming around in this mind. _

_ My thoughts do not  _ roam.  _ They are carefully categorised or deleted as I see fit. _

The Sorting Hat ignored him.  _ But there is something else here. Deep down. Hmmm. Interesting. Very interesting. Yes… I think I’ve made a decision. _

“HUFFLEPUFF!”

“ _ What?”  _ yelped Sherlock, as the hat was whisked off his head.  _ Hufflepuff? What the bloody heck was it thinking? I can’t be a Hufflepuff! What happened to all that shrewdness, that ‘bite’, that spectacular mind? _

For the first time, Sherlock had been thrown a curveball that he had never even considered. As he walked unseeingly to the Hufflepuff table -  _ the Hufflepuff table! -  _ His grey-green eyes locked onto his older brother’s. Mycroft Holmes sat at the Ravenclaw table, his shiny Head Boy badge pinned to his lapel. The seventh-year students’ grey-blue eyes were stoic, as always, but the unmistakable look of disappointment was clear to the younger Holmes. 

Ducking his head, he sat down sullenly at the Hufflepuff table, ignoring all the other students’ efforts to welcome him. Another “HUFFLEPUFF” echoes behind him, as the mousy girl from before took the seat next to him. A few minutes of silence stretched between them, as several more students were sorted, including a “Moriarty, James”, and a “Morstan, Mary”, both of which went to Slytherin. Finally, the Hufflepuff girl sitting beside Sherlock turned to him nervously.

“Hi, I’m Molly Hooper. You must be Sherlock,” she said, sticking her hand out for him to shake. Sherlock turned his nose up at her hand. She slowly lowered it and cleared her throat. “Yes, well. I was wondering if you would like to be friends? I mean. You look kind of lonely just sitting here all by yourself, and I don’t have anyone else to sit with. The other Hufflepuff girls don’t really want to be friends with me, because apparently I’m a bit awkward. I don’t think that’s a really nice thing to say - not very ‘Hufflepuff’ at all, I think. But you are not the usual Hufflepuff either-” her rant was cut short by the Sorting Hat calling out “GRYFFINDOR”, and a sandy-haired boy with a gentle smile made his way to the red-clad table. “Oh,” said Hooper softly, “John isn’t a Hufflepuff after all. He was so very nice to me on the train. I had hoped that he would be sorted into the same house as me.”

Sherlock studied the boy out of the corner of his eye.  _ Hand me down robes, faded, old. Most likely a parent’s going by the condition. Wearing a muggle-made watch. Half-blood, then. Social. Has made a lasting impression on Hooper, and going by the slaps on the back from other Gryffindor first-years, is well-liked by all. Sporty. Has the build and muscle mass one would develop only after consistent activity. Has a nervous tick - raking his hand through his hair, which is tussled and messy they way it would be after being constantly mussed. _

Evidently, this ‘John’ character was the last on the list, as Dumbledore stood to deliver an inane speech filled with gibberish, which Hooper giggled at. Sherlock merely rolled his eyes at the display, and only became animated when the food appeared. 

As he chewed pensively on his roast beef, he looked over to the Gryffindor table, where that John person was shaking hands with a second-year boy. Sherlock could just hear their conversation over the chatter in the great hall: “John Watson. How do you do?” said John politely. “Greg Lestrade. Welcome to Hogwarts, John,” replied the second-year.

_ John Watson, John Watson, _ mused Sherlock.  _ Let’s see if there is more to you than meets the eye. _

* * *

**9:00 am Sept 2 1983.**

Sherlock’s first lesson at Hogwarts started at 9 am the next day: Potions with the Ravenclaws.

He thought the subject was fascinating. He loved the myriad of scents that permeated the air; the shimmering fumes rising above the cauldrons; the heat of the flame; the sound of bubbling, hissing, crackling. He was in his element. 

Professor Snape, the teacher in black robes from the night before, was absolutely fantastic. Sherlock thought there couldn’t possibly be a more quintessential teacher: succinct, descriptive, demanding, thorough, intelligent, and only accepted perfect results. Of course, Sherlock excelled, and it was clear to everyone, even by the end of the first hour, that he was the best in the class by far. Snape, who had never encountered another student quite like Sherlock, felt a strange sense of connection to the boy: they both had a flair for the dramatics, both very intelligent, both loners. Although it was only his second year teaching, he knew that Sherlock Holmes was going to be one to watch.

The other students were less pleased than Snape was. The Ravenclaws felt embarrassed and humiliated: here was a  _ Hufflepuff _ of all people, outshining them and outperforming them by leaps and bounds, when  _ they _ were supposed to be the smart ones. The Hufflepuffs were less hostile, but still unsure of the pale, lonesome boy with the sharp cheekbones and the even sharper wit to match.

Sherlock left that class with his head held high.  _ If this is how I am to be treated for who I am, let them be jealous. Let them stare,  _ he thought haughtily.  _ Why should I be ashamed of being better than they are? _

* * *

**12:55 pm Sept 4 1983.**

The rest of Sherlock’s lessons that day passed much the same way. Some teachers were intrigued (like Snape) some indifferent (like Flitwick) and some thought he was too smart for his own good (like McGonagall). The other houses were curious about ‘that tall Hufflepuff boy’. His fellow Hufflepuffs were still hesitant of how to treat him. The Ravenclaws disliked him for surpassing them, and the Slytherins were torn between considering him a threat or a possible ally. After all, someone with great intellect is not a person to take lightly. The Gryffindors did not share a class with the Hufflepuffs until the third day of classes: Defence Against the Dark Arts, after lunch.

This year, Dumbledore had employed a rather plump middle-aged man called Professor Stamford as the Defence teacher. The man seemed pleasant, but not particularly gifted in any way. Sherlock resigned himself to a boring year (if the rumours about a curse on this particular teaching position were true).

That one afternoon, Sherlock entered the classroom first, as per usual, and took a seat at the very front of the classroom, to indicate his eagerness. He knew that if he displayed the signs of a keen attitude,  _ \- arriving early, sitting up front, neatly arranged stationary, organised notes - _ he would make a good first impression on the teacher and therefore build a relationship of trust, which he could then later use to his advantage. You never knew when you needed the help of an adult with authority, even one as simple-minded as Professor Stamford.

The Professor was setting up the blackboard by waving his wand about so that the chalk drew up neat little notes and diagrams.  _ Has experience with teaching, but not with students as young as us. Mostly mentors adults, going by the complexity of his diagrams. We are learning about how magic can affect the human body and the proper basic body stances of casting spells. Therefore, he studied to be a Medi-witch but took a break from that field to come to teach at Hogwarts, as he is starting off with something he is familiar with. _

Stamford noticed him staring at the blackboard and let out a chuckle. “Don’t worry about not understanding anything yet; we’ll go over it shortly with the rest of the class,” he said jovially.

“Yes, sir. However, did you know that your diagram of the proper wand-holding position is slightly incorrect? You have to draw the index finger along the top of the wand, in order to maximise grip while maintaining the fluidity needed for the widest range of protective spells, including a shield charm or a disarming one,” said Sherlock smartly, setting down his bag and laying out his quill and parchment parallel to each other, before taking his seat with a flourish.

Professor Stamford blinked. He looked back to the diagram. He looked at Sherlock. He looked at his wand in his hand: his index finger was indeed along the top of the wand. He looked back to the diagram again. He looked at Sherlock again. Then he laughed uproariously.

“My, my! You must be that Holmes boy the other staff have mentioned. They told me to keep an eye out for you. ‘Quick as a Nimbus, he is!’” he chortled. Sherlock smiled glibly.

As Stamford chuckled, the rest of the class shuffled in. The Hufflepuffs saw Sherlock in the front row and decidedly sat further away. The Gryffindors seemed confused by their behaviour and hesitated as well. They too sat a little distance away from Sherlock, who paid them no mind, ignoring the tiny pang of hurt he felt at the rejection of so many strangers, even though he never interacted with any of them.

Stamford introduced himself to the class and took the register. He reached the end of the list quickly. “John Watson.” No response from the class. Sherlock turned in his seat to swiftly scan the room. Watson was not there. “John Watson?” called Stamford again.

Just then, the doors to the classroom bounced open, and a dishevelled Watson stood in the open doorway, panting and clutching a split bag. His clothes and his books were soaked in ink, and the dark liquid was splashed onto his face, creating little black speckles.

“Here, sir! I’m here. I just-” he huffed, “Peeves stole my bag.”

Stamford just smiled. “No problem, my boy. Come take a seat by Sherlock here. I’ve had plenty of run-ins with that poltergeist, and let me tell you, he can be merciless when he wants to be.” he said, waving his wand once more, and the doors closed silently behind the Gryffindor.

Watson walked briskly down the rows of tables before coming to a stop beside Sherlock. He dumped his dripping pile of cargo onto the desk as he slumped tiredly into his seat. Sherlock wrinkled his nose at the mess, before talking his wand out as casting a quiet “ _scourgify_.” Immediately, the ink siphoned itself out of Watson’s clothing and items. He turned wide eyes towards Sherlock, who merely nudged his full inkwell in his direction. “You can share with me,” he said quietly.

Watson stared at him for a beat, before smiling widely. “Thank you. I’m John Watson, nice to meet you.” He held out his hand to shake.

The Hufflepuff took it.

“Sherlock Holmes.”

* * *

**2:50 pm Sept 4 1983.**

After Defense, Watson and Sherlock split up for their last class: Sherlock to History of Magic and Watson to Herbology, however, they promised to meet up outside the greenhouses to ‘hang out’ before supper.

Since Sherlock had already read through his History of Magic textbook and memorised the key points of the first three chapters already, his mind was free to wander for the rest of the hour. Binn’s droning monotone provided a steady thrum of background noise while Sherlock thought about what had transpired that day.

He had never had a friend before. Sure, he had Redbeard, but an owl was hardly a great substitute for human company. And as for Mycroft… well, Sherlock hated his older brother. It wasn’t always this way: Sherlock used to adore his ‘Mycie’, and Mycroft used to dote of his ‘Lock’, but then Mycroft had grown up and left Sherlock in the dust while he went to chase his dreams of being someone of significance in the Ministry, and Sherlock had grown resentful. Other children disliked him for being different, for always showing off, for having no brain to mouth filter, so this whole experience with Watson - ‘hanging out together’ - was completely new to Sherlock.

When they had first been paired up together in class, Sherlock had been prepared for Watson to be kind and polite, yet dull and insipid. This was based on what information Sherlock had previously gathered on John Watson, from the snippets he heard in passing, from what Molly rambled to him about, from his own observations. However, Sherlock had been pleasantly surprised when John turned out to be almost as good at he was at Defence. The Gryffindor took to combat magic like a kelpie to water. His body stance was natural and relaxed, but there was an undercurrent of danger hidden beneath his calm facade. His wand movements were effortless and graceful, but he clearly did not lack in power. In fact, Sherlock would say the only edge he had over Watson would be his ability to read his opponent. He may lack the practical ease Watson managed to find, but he used his massive intellect to even the playing field. All in all, Sherlock was both nonplussed and intrigued by his new friend.

After their last class of the day, Sherlock had made his way down to the greenhouses, where Watson was waiting for him. They had a little less than three hours to themselves before supper, so the boys decided to explore the castle together. They set off on a stroll around the grounds, passing the lake and watching the Giant Squid splash around a little ways off. They investigated interesting portraits and statues they came across. They peeked into the library and the Medical Wing, before being shooed away by Madams Prince and Pomfrey respectively. Eventually, they climbed up to the Owlery, where Sherlock introduced his eagle owl, Redbeard, to John and John introduced his own bird to Sherlock, who was a rather large barn owl by the name of Sholto.

Sherlock had brought a couple of owl treats along, and after he had fed one to Redbeard, he offered one to Sholto, as well. The barn owl hopped down from his perch to glide gingerly down to Sherlock’s outstretched hand. He gently took the treat and swallowed it down. He trilled with happiness when Sherlock ran his hands soothingly through his feathers at his neck. Redbeard, who was watching silently, finally grew envious of the attention the barn owl was receiving and shouldered his way under Sherlock’s other hand. The Hufflepuff found himself with his hands full, petting the birds for another few minutes.

A spluttered laugh caught his attention. He turned to see Watson holding a hand to his mouth to muffle his laughter as he observed the two owls fighting over Sherlock’s attention like two suitors over a bride.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at him. John let his hand fall and said, “I’m not laughing at you, I promise. It’s just that Sholto can be friendly, but he never takes to a stranger so quickly. He is even purring like a kitten just because you offered him a treat and a neck rub.” He snorted inelegantly. “I think he actually prefers you to me.”

The Hufflepuff turned back to the owl in question and saw that, indeed, the brown barn owl had his eyes closed in contentment, shivering lightly as Sherlock rubbed long lingers down his back. He looked over his shoulder to the blonde. “I always give Redbeard these kinds to massages. He particularly likes them after a long flight. I just thought that maybe Sholto would like one too after delivering that message to your sister in Essex.”

Watson’s mouth dropped open. “How did you know that?”

Sherlock shrugged, his hands still occupied with stroking the owls. “Sholto’s feathers were damp, but not wet. It had rained earlier today. The timing matches up, so Sholto must have returned to Hogwarts sometime this morning. However, when he flew down to my arm just now, he did so cautiously. You had just mentioned that he was friendly, so it was not because he was afraid of me: it is because he is tired and sore. Hence, a long flight. Earlier, you had mentioned having a sister who lived in Essex and going by the orientation Sholto’s feathers were stuck in because of the rain, he was flying in that general direction. So. Letter to sister in Essex, sent yesterday afternoon due to the long-distance, owl only returned this morning.”

The Gryffindor continued to gawk at Sherlock, his mouth agape. Then-

“Sherlock. That was bloody fantastic. I knew you were clever, but that is just genius!”

Sherlock let out an uncharacteristic shy smile. “Thank you, John.” He gestured to the door. “Shall we?”

* * *

**6:06 pm Sept 4 1983.**

When they entered the Great Hall, slightly later than they expected, Sherlock had immediately turned to go to the Hufflepuff table, as usual. But a gentle hand on his arm stopped him. A quiet “Sherlock,” came from behind him. Curious, Sherlock turned back to John.  _ Was there a kind of social cue I needed to give when we part ways? _

Suddenly, it occurred to Sherlock what John must have been waiting for.

“Oh. Goodbye, John.”

But instead of returning the sentiments like Sherlock had been expecting, John simply tightening his grip slightly. “I didn’t mean it like that, you dolt,” he said with a smile, “I was offering for you to join me and my friends at the Gryffindor table.”

Sherlock blinked. “Oh.”  _ How interesting. You constantly manage to surprise me, John.  _ “Isn’t that not allowed?”

John chuckled lightly before tugging him along despite Sherlock’s protests. He dragged the taller boy over to the Gryffindor table, plopped down onto the bench and yanked Sherlock down with him. The badger among a table of lions hunched his shoulders self-consciously as red-clad students turned curious eyes his way. He sat down beside John slowly, almost as if he was afraid the bench would bite him in the rear. John, on the other hand, was completely at ease and already shovelling a small mountain of mashed potatoes onto his plate, before filling Sherlock’s plate with the golden buttered spuds. When Sherlock turned curious eyes his way, John just shrugged. “You’re too skinny. You should eat more.”

Something warm curled in Sherlock’s belly at John’s words. He ducked his head in thanks and reached for the gravy, and poured a generous helping of it onto John’s mash. “I know you like gravy, and only eat the mash as an excuse to have some,” he said in response to John’s gaze. A blinding smile stretched over John’s face.

The boys were interrupted by a cough coming from opposite the table from them. They looked up to see Greg Lestrade’s brown orbs eyeing Sherlock questionably. “Who’s your Hufflepuff friend, John?”

Before John or Sherlock could say anything, a piercing (and very unwelcome) voice sounded from John’s left.

“That’s the Freak we were talking about earlier, Greg,” said Donovan snootily. Beside her, Anderson, who also seemed to have been snuck over from the Ravenclaw table, sneered at John. “I can’t believe that when you said you were going to hang out with a new friend, that you meant the Freak. Honestly John. I expected better of you,” he jeered.

“And I,” said John loudly, “expected better of  _ you,  _ Phillip. And you, Sally. Has either of you actually spoken to Sherlock? And even if you had, how could you call anyone such a hurtful word?”

Anderson and Donovan exchanged looks. On John’s other side, Sherlock kept his eyes locked onto the back of his defender’s golden head, ignoring Lestrade’s gaze and Anderson and Donovan’s glares.

“The Freak humiliated me on the train. He told the entire carriage how my parents were drinking and sleeping around,” hissed Anderson.

John shot a look over his shoulder and Sherlock shrunk into himself slightly at the heat of his warning glare. He could hear the unspoken  _ ‘we’ll be having words later.’ _ John returned his attention to the Ravenclaw. “And what did you do to anger him?”

Anderson lowered his gaze sullenly. Sherlock piped up from behind John. “I asked to sit in his compartment, but he refused me due to the fact that I ‘looked like a dementor had a baby with a vampire’. I then told him that a dementor is incapable of the kind of reproduction he was referring to, and is unable to cross-breed. In addition, a vampire only reproduces by biting a human victim. I also told him that if he had any brains at all, he would not have made the mistake my owl would not have made if given the same question,” said Sherlock smarmily.

John rubbed his temples tiredly. But it was Lestrade who spoke up next: “Phillip, Sally. Your insults were uncalled for. Sherlock. Please do not go around insulting people’s intelligence, even if they really should know better. All three of you. Apologise.” His voice was firm and unrelenting. John smiled gratefully at him.

The three students in question glared hatefully at each other. Sherlock could feel the heat of John’s body next to him. He gritted his teeth and lowered his head. “I apologise for insulting your meagre intellects. In future, I will endeavour not to correct you and cause you to further embarrass yourselves,” he said humbly. John narrowed his eyes slightly but did not say anything.

Donovan and Anderson were clearly running Sherlock’s words over in their brains. The clear expression of their tiny brains piecing the words together even made Lestrade crack a smile. Eventually, they nodded in response to Sherlock’s rather backhanded apology. “Yeah. Whatever. Sorry,” huffed Anderson perfunctorily. Sally sniffed, before saying, “Phil, let’s go eat at the Ravenclaw table. I didn’t think badgers were allowed to eat at this table.” It was only John’s grip on Sherlock’s wrist under the table that kept him from sprouting insults that would have resulted in an even worse catastrophe. Instead, he allowed them to leave the table unscathed.

After they left, John released a sigh. “Well, so much for introducing you to my friends.”

“I wouldn’t say that effort was a total waste,” said Sherlock. He stuck out his hand to Lestrade. “Sherlock Holmes.” Lestrade shook it with a slightly bemused look on his face. “Pleasure. Greg Lestrade.”

John huffed out a tiny laugh. “I suppose it would be a shame for all this gravy to go to waste.” He picked up his spoon again and dug into his mash with vigour, smiling as Sherlock dragged Lestrade into a rather disgusting conversation about a dementor’s breeding habits.

* * *

**4:23 pm Nov 15 1983.**

“Honestly, Sherlock. You should talk to her.”

“Why should I? You know how I feel about human interaction. The most likely consequence of me approaching her is a toss-up between me making her cry or her slapping me.”

Two months after the disastrous encounter with Donovan and Anderson, Sherlock and John’s friendship was still going strong. Although it was rarer, Sherlock was also known to spend some time with Lestrade, with or without John. However, it was still very clear that Sherlock was a solitary figure. He would spend the day with his Gryffindors, then made his way back to the Hufflepuff common room alone, where he would spend the rest of the day tucked into the corner with a book or his papers, scribbling away in the orange glow of the fire.

John worried about his friend: Sherlock literally only had John and by extension, Lestrade, as friends. He needed someone else to be there for him, preferably someone in his own house. The perfect candidate: Molly Hooper.

The willowy girl was the only person who did not shy away from Sherlock. In fact, she seemed to be drawn to him; she would follow him around at a distance. She would watch him as he spoke to John, hand waving animatedly, mind going a million miles a minute, just soaking in his presence. 

The Gryffindor boy was almost 90% positive that Hooper had a crush on Sherlock, and for some tiny reason, John felt almost… possessive? He shook away those thoughts. No. Sherlock was not  _ his _ . He was just… worried about him. Yes. Worried. Although by all accounts, even his own experiences of his interactions with her, Molly Hooper was a sweet, harmless girl, he was worried that she might hurt Sherlock.

Sherlock may seem like a figure of ice from the outside, but he was much more sensitive than he let on. He was determined that everyone hated him and that people avoided him on principle. John wanted him to realise that all of that was utter bicorn dung, therefore, the best solution was introducing Sherlock to more people, so he could see that not everyone disliked him.

So here they were: John trying to persuade Sherlock to talk to Hooper. They were huddled in the library, in their usual corner, between the medical section - because John enjoyed reading those books - and the Muggle Science section - because Sherlock, while pure-blooded, thought Muggles were fascinating and loved reading their explanations for how the world worked. He thought particles and compounds and atoms and electrons were enthralling. His favourite quote at the moment was: “magic's just science that we don't understand yet.” 

John, having grown up with a Muggle mother, was amused at Sherlock’s avid interest with Muggle science, and put up with the Hufflepuff’s barrages of questions.  _ ‘How does a telephone work?’ ‘What does a TV look like?’ ‘What exactly is a periodic table?’ ‘Why do electrons move opposite to the electrical flow in a wire?’ ‘How can you calculate power?’ ‘Did you know that when your body is in a hot environment, homeostasis occurs, and your blood vessels actually  _ dilate _ to allow heat to be released faster?’  _ John honestly had no idea about anything Sherlock babbled at him. And in truth, Sherlock did not need him to explain at all; he just needed a willing person to listen to his findings. Sometimes, when Sherlock went off on a tangent about the decaying process of human flesh or whatever, John would just let him talk and sit there with his own book. The Hufflepuff did not seem to notice that John was barely paying attention, continuing to talk and talk and talk until his voice cracked with the strain of speaking for hours on end. It would be then that John would hand a glass of pumpkin juice over to him, which he had fetched from the kitchens (which Sherlock had explained how to get into) while Sherlock talked. The brunet would take the glass, smile thankfully at the shorter boy, down the drink in one gulp and turn back to his book.

John would take this time to study the curve of his lips as he mouthed the scientific words, trace the angle of his cheekbones with his eyes, feel the warmth of Sherlock’s body, hear the steady breathing of his best friend. John found great comfort in his friend’s company and enjoyed listening to his voice very much, though he would be the first to admit that Sherlock could be irritating. He had a habit of chucking the books he was done with over his shoulder, causing an irate Madam Prince to kick them out of the cosy library. He also enjoyed snatching pages out of John’s hands when he was still reading them, which infuriated the Gryffindor to no end. However, he wouldn’t trade Sherlock for anything. He didn’t know what he’d be without him.

“The last time you tried to introduce me to someone resulted in two of your friends turning on you, and never speaking with you again,” said Sherlock, jolting John out of his stupor.

“Yes, but I didn’t think they were very nice anyway. And besides, we got Greg out of it, didn’t we?” countered John. Sherlock sighed in acquiesce. “Fine. But if it goes wrong, I’ll blame you.” John merely beamed in response as Sherlock stood from his seat and wandered down the aisle, where Molly Hooper was sitting reading a book with rather gruesome diagrams of a cadaver sliced open to be examined.

Sherlock looked at the page from over her shoulder.  _ “‘The Effect of the Polyjuice Potion on the Body’s Internal Organs’,” _ he read aloud. Hooped jumped and let out a pitchy squeak as she whirled around in her seat to stare up at Sherlock. “I always wondered if the body’s internal organs shifted as well. What if the person you were transforming into had a type of cancer? Would you feel those effects as well? What if the person had bladder-control problems? Would you also pee yourself every so often?” he questioned aloud. Hooper continued to stare at him. He shrank away slightly from the intensity of her gaze. He looked over his shoulder at John who made an encouraging gesture towards Hooper. He swallowed and looked back at her. 

Hooper cleared her throat nervously. “Uh. You’re- I mean- I’m… You’re Molly. Uh, that is. I’m Sherlock. Wait, no, that’s not it. I’m Molly, and you’re Sherlock. But you knew that last bit because it’s you’re name, but maybe you didn’t know the bit about my name? Um-” she rambled.

Sherlock watched her flounder for a bit longer. The awkward silence stretched out a moment longer before Hooper visibly calmed herself down. She held out her hand for him to shake, and this time, Sherlock took it. 

“Hello, Molly Hooper. Would you like to come and sit with us?” he asked, gesturing back to the table John was sat at. The Gryffindor waved.

Hooper swallowed. “If that’s alright with you.” Sherlock nodded and grabbed her hand, tugging her over to the table in the corner. Hooper let out another squeak as their hands connected and sat dazedly at the table.

John smiled and reintroduced himself to her, laughing internally at Molly’s stunned face. He felt a strong sense of deja vu: Greg had also looked like that after meeting Sherlock. It seemed that Sherlock just had that effect of people, after all, didn’t John react similarly that fateful day in Professor Stamford’s classroom?

* * *

###  Year 5

**1:57 pm Oct 11 1987.**

Four years have passed, and Sherlock and John have had their fair share of fights, including that one row about Sherlock testing a slowing charm on himself by jumping off the astronomy tower in their fourth year. John had not spoken to him for two weeks straight, in which he had started dating Mary Morstan from Slytherin. Sherlock felt like absolute  _ shite _ as he watched his John flirt with another person. He didn’t know exactly  _ why _ he was feeling this way; normally he’d have spoken to John to help clear his cluttered mind, but since John hated him and said emotions revolved around the Gryffindor, Sherlock kept his silence.

He would have gone on keeping his distance from John if he hadn’t discovered that Mary Morstan was a lying liar who lies. Sherlock found out that Morstan was also secretly dating Ajay Agra, a Gryffindor in the year above them. To make matters worse, Morstan was a terrible girlfriend to John. She took up all his attention, ditched him on dates, verbally insulted him… the list went on. Sherlock was uncomfortably aware that he sometimes treated John similarly: he would often drag John around the school, leaving him no time to himself or to socialise with others; he would promise to meet the Gryffindor later, then forget about their arrangement; and when he was particularly irritated, he would insult John’s intelligence, although he knew that John was by no means stupid.

Sherlock promised that if John ever forgave him for his (rather foolish, in hindsight) stunt with the astronomy tower, he would treat him better. He told Lestrade and Molly of his discoveries about Morstan and had them be passed on to John through their mutual friends.

The next day, John had walked up to Sherlock outside their shared Charms classroom and gave him a firm hug. No words were needed. The unspoken  _ ‘I’m sorry’ _ and  _ ‘I forgive you’  _ was heard loud and clear. The rest of the day passed as if the last two weeks hadn’t happened: no fall, no Mary Morstan, no silence.

However, John did realise two things from those unvoiced days: the first was that seeing Sherlock jump from that tower was something John wanted desperately to forget. The horror he had felt as he watched the slight figure of his friend spread his arms out and  _ fall, _ plummeting towards the ground, his robes flapping in the wind, his arms swinging wildly, his hair a halo of darkness… it was an image he wanted to  _ obliviate _ from his memory. Even the way Sherlock’s fall had eventually slowed until he landed on the grassy ground as light as a feather did nothing to assuage John’s pulsating terror. 

The second thing was that John Waston  _ needed _ Sherlock Holmes. Those fourteen days of separation hurt like no other. He tried to distract himself by dating the pretty Slytherin girl Molly had mentioned partnering up with in Herbology, but then Greg and Molly had come up to him with solemn faces and explained everything about how Mary was actually with Ajay. John honestly felt nothing but relief when he broke up with her. He was clearly unhappy, and he had missed Sherlock. He knew immediately that is was not Greg or Molly who had uncovered Mary’s secrets, but a certain genius Hufflepuff, so at the next opportunity, John did what he wanted to do for the past two weeks - he grabbed his best friend into a hug and forgave him.

As the months went on, John started to realise something: his entire world revolved around Sherlock. He thought about him constantly. He worried for him. He wanted to make him laugh. He wanted to show the emotionally constipated dolt that it was okay to cry, to feel weak. He wanted to hold his hand and tug him close. He wanted to kiss him and love him and claim him and mark him and keep him. John Watson  _ wanted _ .

And so, on this sunny October day, the day of the first Quidditch match of the season. John Watson went over his plan.

_ Today is the day I tell him. Today is the day everything changes. _

However, it was just John’s luck that they were playing against Hufflepuff. However, John knew from the past few years that Sherlock would not be sitting in the yellow and black stands. No, he would be sitting amongst the red and gold, cheering louder than any other Gryffindor. Sherlock never had any particular interest for the sport, but he attended only the games where Gryffindor would be playing, and always sat in the Gryffindor stands. John knew that he was only there for him, and felt another bubble of affection burst in his stomach.

His musings were interrupted when Greg cleared his throat loudly. “Alright everyone, huddle up.” The Gryffindor Quidditch Captain clapped his hands sharply, and the team bundled around him.

“Alright. Hufflepuff’s got a new seeker. A second-year by the name of Soo Lin Yao. She’s fast but inexperienced. Dimmock, when you’re looking for the Snitch, try to distract her as much as you can. She’s never been in a real game before, so it shouldn’t be hard.” continued Greg. Dimmock, a weedy fourth-year, nodded and gripped his broom tighter.

The keeper and Captain turned to the chasers next: “Sally, Stella, Ajay. Hufflepuff’s chasers Smith, Bainbridge and Sawyer have been working on their passing. You got to make sure that you intercept them faster, and to block them. I’ll make sure to keep an eye on the peripheral chasers, but I can’t be everywhere at once.”

“John, Janine. Their keeper had a shoulder injury. That’s your target. Now, I’m not saying cause some damage, but that is exactly what I’m saying. We won the cup last year; I’m not letting it go now,” said Greg. The beaters exchanged mischievous looks. “Don’t worry about it, Greg. We’ve got you covered,” smirked John.

“Okay then. That’s it for the game plan. Now let’s get out there and kick some badger ass.” 

* * *

**2:01 pm Oct 11 1987.**

“And they’re off! Hufflepuff’s captain Sarah Sawyer in possession. What a great lineup do we have today for you folks: on Hufflepuff’s team, we have Sawyer, Faith Smith, and Stephen Bainbridge as chasers, Angelo Cane and Isaac Whitney as beaters, Henry Knight as keeper and a new seeker, Soo Lin Yao, a second-year.

Ooh! That was close! Sawyer’s shot blocked by her opposing captain: keeper Greg Lestrade, who led Gryffindor to the cup last year. Can he do it again? Other Gryffindor players include Sally Donovan, Ajay Agra and Stella Hopkins as chasers, Janine Hawkins and John Watson as beaters, and Jerry Dimmock as the seeker.”

The commentator, Kitty Riley, a Slytherin third-year, spoke quickly and clearly, which John was very grateful for. He has had his fair share of incompetent commentators, and often depended on them for the score and to keep track of what was happening in the air.

“Donovan in possession. She dodges a bludger pelted by Cane, ducks past Bainbridge and Smith, and- SCORE! Ten points to Gryffindor!”

John pumped his bat in the air, as the red-clad stands screamed. He spotted the tiny flecks of yellow in the seats: Sherlock and Molly.

“It’s Hufflepuff’s Smith in possession of the Quaffle now. She passes to Bainbridge, who passes to Sawyer, who passes back to Smith, who takes a shot and- damn, missed again. Lestrade is on fire today!” The Hufflepuff stands groaned in disappointment.

John swung his bat and pelted a bludger straight at Soo Lin Yao, who was hovering in place above the pitch, scanning and searching for the Snitch. It zooms towards her, and she barely spotted it in time. She executed a sloppy barrel-roll in order to avoid it. Dimmock shoots John a thumbs up in thanks.

“Ooh, a bit of a dirty move from Watson just then, targeting the inexperienced Yao, who nearly didn’t see it coming. Gryffindor is not here to mess around. And it’s Agra with the Quaffle now, but a bludger from Whitney causes him to drop the ball, and now it’s Hufflepuff in possession. Will they make it? YES! Bainbridge puts it through the left hoop as a well-place bludger from Cane cuts off Lestrade. Ten points to Hufflepuff!” The yellow and black stands roar in approval as the red and gold ones groan.

The match continued on, both teams were relatively even: as one team scored, the other would quickly catch up in points. Bludgers flew through the air, as the four beaters swung and smacked the heavy balls towards their opponents. John relished in the force of impact his bat had against the bludger, and to his satisfaction, quite a few Hufflepuff players sported some rather nasty bruises because of him.

An hour into the game, Hufflepuff was leading by two points. One hundred and sixty points to Gryffindor’s one hundred and forty and Greg was getting angsty. He signalled to Hooch for a time-out, and both teams landed to catch their breaths.

Greg was covered in sweat and sand: he had taken a bludger to the back and it had knocked him off his broom into the sand below. He seemed unhurt, just tired. “I don’t know how long we can keep this up. Anyone got any suggestions?” he panted.

Janine raised her hand. “John and I could target Sawyer. We’ve already given Knight a couple of good knocks to the injured shoulder; his jerky flight patterns made that clear. It seems that the Hufflepuff chases are relying on Sawyer to score, while Bainbridge and Smith block our chasers. If we targeted Sawyer, it would be easier for us to take possession.”

“Let’s do it. Dimmock, how’s it going with Yao and the Snitch?” said Greg.

“Yao is as we expected. She’s talented but unsure of herself. As long as I spot the Snitch first, we’ll have no problem winning. But if she sees it first, she might reach the Snitch before I do,” he stated, frustrated.

John grinned, all teeth. “Leave that bit to me.”

* * *

**3:29 pm Oct 11 1987.**

Sherlock sat with Molly in the Gryffindor stands, watching as the teams mounted their brooms once more and took off.

“They’ve changed their game plan. They’re probably targeting Sawyer and Yao, now,” he said to her. Molly nodded and gripped her red flag tighter. Sherlock returned his focus to John.

The beater was hanging around the Gryffindor goal posts, flying is slow circles around the centre of the poles, while Lestrade hovered stationarily in front of the middle hoop. Sherlock noted John’s eyes flickering between the Hufflepuff chasers and Soo Lin Yao, and smirked when he realised his assumptions were correct.

“And we’re back. I think that time-out gave all the players a well-needed break,” said Kitty Riley over the megaphone. “Now it’s Hopkins from Gryffindor with the Quaffle, flanked by Donovan and Agra as she heads towards the Hufflepuff goals. She dodges Bainbridge, loops past Sawyer and- whoa! Donovan divebombs Smith and it’s a foul! Hufflepuff’s Sawyer takes the Quaffle and easily puts it in. The score is now one hundred and seventy to one hundred and forty, in Hufflepuff’s favour.”

Sherlock could hear Lestrade shouting at Donovan over the noise of the crowd.  _ Serves him right for allowing her onto the team. _

His mind snaps back into focus as Riley’s voice skyrockets in pitch and volume.

“WAIT! YAO’S SEEN THE SNITCH! YAO’S SHOOTING TOWARDS THE BASE OF THE GRYFFINDOR GOALS WITH DIMMOCK HOT ON HER TAIL, BUT HE’S TOO SLOW. HE’S NEVER GONNA MAKE IT- OH MY GOD! A BLUDGER FROM WATSON TAKES OUT YAO AND- YES! DIMMOCK’S GOT IT! HE’S GOT THE SNITCH! ONE HUNDRED FIFTY POINTS AND THE FIRST VICTORY OF THE SEASON TO GRYFFINDOR! THE FINAL SCORE: TWO HUNDRED AND NINETY POINTS TO ONE HUNDRED AND SEVENTY.”

The stands around Sherlock explode with cheers as Dimmock closed his fist around the elusive little ball and raises it high above his head. Molly shrieks into Sherlock’s ear as they clamber past the other Gryffindors to reach the pitch, where the rest of the players had landed. Some Hufflepuffs baulk when they see two of their own jumping for joy at their opponent’s victory.

Molly launches herself at Lestrade and John, squawking excitedly. Sherlock follows at a more sedate pace and allows John to wrap a sweaty arm around his shoulders. He whispers a quiet “congratulations” to him, and he feels something warm inside him flutter when John turns elated eyes his way. The gleaming smile makes Sherlock’s heart skip inside his chest. 

Before he can analyse the odd sensation, Molly grabs Lestrade and John’s hands, who then latches onto Sherlock out of instinct, and starts dragging them towards the castle, spouting some nonsense about getting them some good food. The rest of the Gryffindor team, used to Molly’s antics by now, allowed her to drag their captain and beater away without a fuss.

Instead of heading towards the kitchens like Sherlock was expecting, Molly turned abruptly and dragged the boys over to the little willow tree the four of them always hang out at. “I think a picnic is the best way to celebrate,” she said by explanation.

John plopped down against the trunk of the tree, and as he still had his hand around Sherlock’s, the Hufflepuff was also forced to sit. He had a sudden flashback of their first dinner together, in which John had also dragged him by the hand over to sit. 

“John, you should let me go,” he said.

“Why? Do you- I mean, do you not-” said John awkwardly. Sherlock cut him off gently. “I should go with Molly to get you some food. You and Lestrade have earned a break.”

Lestrade was the one who responded, instead of John. “Don’t worry about it, Sherlock. I’ll go with Molly to the kitchens. You both just wait here. We won’t be a moment.”

The Hufflepuff eyed him suspiciously. Lestrade was covered in sweat, sand, grass and bruises. His back was most likely extremely tender, and Sherlock was sure that walking the long distance to the kitchens couldn’t be very comfortable.

“Why don’t you go to see Madam Pomfrey first to check out those bruises?” interrupted John. “I’m sure Molly can handle the food herself, and we’ll come to see you in the Medical Wing soon.”

“Good idea. I’ll walk him there,” said Molly swiftly, before grabbing Lestrade’s arm and manhandling him towards the entrance to the school.

Sherlock frowned. It was clear that they were hiding something from him, but what could they possibly gain for leaving John and him alone?

“Uh, Sherlock…” started John.

The taller boy glanced over at him. The blonde was obviously nervous: he was running his hands through his hair, the sweat causing it to stick up in little spikes. His eyes darted from Sherlock’s face to the grass beneath them. But for the life of him, Sherlock could not tell what he was nervous about.

“John,” Sherlock responded. The blonde seemed to gather all of the trademarked Gryffindor courage and opened his mouth, however, nothing came out. He cleared his throat and tried again.

“God, why is this so hard? I wanted- wanted to. Well. Uh,” he stumbled. He took one last breath and blurted. “Sherlock Holmes, will you be my boyfriend?”

Silence. Sherlock just stared at him. 

“It’s just that, I think I like you. Romantically, I mean. I have for years, maybe. I wanted to see i-if you felt the same as I did because at least I thought you did, but now maybe not because you aren’t saying anything…” stumbled John.

Sherlock had shut down. His whole mind was in disarray.

John must have taken Sherlock’s silence for rejection because he stood quickly and started to run in the direction of the school. He only stopped when a strong grip yanked him back. He spun uncoordinatedly around in a circle until he found himself in a tight embrace.

Sherlock hugged him for a beat longer, before grabbing John’s shocked face in his hands and crushing their mouths together.

It was clear to John that Sherlock had absolutely zero experience with kissing. The other boy was clumsy with his tongue, and there were a bit too many teeth involved, and their nosed bumped together every so often, but to John, it was bloody  _ fantastic. _

John had kissed a few girls before: Sarah Sawyer from the Hufflepuff Quidditch team, Mary Morstan, a Ravenclaw girl named Jannette whom he’d forgotten her last name… but he had never been kissed like  _ this  _ before.

Sherlock kissed him like he was something precious and beautiful. He kissed him like he needed John as if he was his very air, his water, his sustenance.

John let out a few tiny happy noises and he started to respond eagerly. He licked into the Hufflepuff’s mouth, worried his bottom lip with his teeth and smoothed away the sting with his lips. He  _ devoured  _ Sherlock, drinking in his content sighs and absorbing Sherlock’s warmth.

They kissed for what seemed like an eternity under that little willow tree. The sun shone down on them and the breeze ruffled Sherlock’s curls. Eventually, they parted, lips kiss-swollen and obscene. They panted for breath as they leaned their foreheads together. Sherlock rubbed his nose gently against John’s in a sweet Eskimo’s kiss, before he laughed out loud, the deep timbre of his voice rumbling in John’s chest.

“Silly Watson, why did you run away? I was just processing your words, and I’m somewhat embarrassed to say it took a while to form a clear thought,” chuckled Sherlock.

John snorted. “Did you mean that I had broken the Great Sherlock Holmes with nothing more than a confession?”

Sherlock clutched him closer. “Yes, you did, my dear John. You did, indeed.” He kissed the top of his blonde head. “I like you too, by the way.” John smiled happily at the words.

“CAN WE COME OUT NOW?” came the loud call. Sherlock and John both chortled and released one another. “Yes, Molly, you and Greg can sit down now,” laughed John, his torso still very much leaning into Sherlock.

Grey and Molly rounded the bush they had been hiding behind, carrying a large picnic basket. “Did you know how long you’d been snogging? I not only managed to pick up the food, but I even managed to fetch Greg from the Medical Wing,” said Molly as she spread the blanket out on the ground. Greg merely smiled at the two of them. “Finally. I told you it would work out, John.” John blushed slightly. “Yes, it did. Didn’t it.” Sherlock kissed his head again.

* * *

###  Year 6

**1:49 pm Dec 13 1988.**

Over a year had passed since John had asked Sherlock to be his boyfriend, but Sherlock still felt that warm flutter in his chest every time John took his hand while they were walking, or leaned over to give him a peck on the cheek, or gave him that sweet, fond smile that was reserved only for Sherlock.

The Hufflepuff knew that he was terrible with emotions, but he still made an effort to return John’s sentiments. Sometimes, when the four of them were studying in the library, Sherlock would cover John’s hand with his own thin one, or he would deliberately lean his head on the blonde’s shoulder when reading. He would reach out and trace the bones in John’s face, just to watch those expressive eyes soften. Sherlock loved loving John Watson.

So here they were, with Lestrade and Molly walking along the backroad of Hogsmead, Sherlock’s gaze glued onto John’s eyelashes as little snowflakes landed on them. Molly was chatting to Lestrade about how her boyfriend, Tom, had bought a tiny black kitten for her.

“His name is Mog because he is a moggie,” she explained primly. Lestrade, a pure-blood, looked confused at the muggle slang.

Molly laughed at his bemused expression. “A moggie is a term for a cat that doesn’t have a pedigree. We don’t know what kind of cat he is, so we’re calling him Mog.”

“I see,” said Lestrade. “It was sweet of Tom to buy him for you.”

“Oh yes,” exclaimed Molly happily, “he knew I always wanted a pet; isn’t he so thoughtful?”

Sherlock blocked out their chatter as John nudged him slightly. “What do you think? Should I get you a cat for Christmas?”

The taller boy huffed out a breath of laughter, made visible by the cold. “I doubt Redbeard would enjoy that. And I’ve always been more of a dog person myself.”

John nodded. The first time Molly had introduced Mog to Redbeard and Sholto had the former in a frenzy. The eagle owl had screeched bloody murder, which in turn set of Sholto, and since they were in the Owlery, the rest of the owls had also started to fuss. In the end, it took thirteen silencing spells and John’s entire bag of owl treats in order to resolve the situation.

“The last time I saw an owl throw a fit like that was in our second year: when you refused to open the howler Mycroft sent you for blowing up the potions lab, and the howler exploded while Eurus was still holding it,” John snorted in amusement. Sherlock smirked slightly at the reminder of the way Eurus, Mycroft’s eastern screech owl, had gone absolutely  _ ballistic _ when Sherlock had simply refused to take the howler from her. The resulting explosion and shrieks were quite amusing, even after McGonagall took five points from Hufflepuff for Sherlock’s actions.

“That blasted owl deserved it.” Sherlock’s childish hatred for his brother evidently extended to his owl.

The two of them walked in companionable quiet for a while longer. Behind them, Molly and Lestrade had finished their own conversation, leaving the group in silence. The only sounds that were heard were the crunching of boots on freshly-fallen snow, the chattering of Molly’s teeth and the huffs of breath in the cold winter air. 

“SHIT-”

The tranquillity of the moment was shattered as the ground opened up beneath them, and the group plummeted a good ten meters into a deep pit. Sherlock screamed “ARRESTO MOMENTUM!” instinctively. The slowing charm that Sherlock had perfected back in their fourth year by jumping off the astronomy tower managed to protect them from the worst of the damage. However, Sherlock had not been expecting the fall: it took him slightly too long to react and they hit the ground harder than they would have liked. There was a sickening crack as Lestrade bellowed in pain. “ _ Fuck!”  _

“Greg? What is it? Are you alright?” gasped Molly.

“I think -  _ oh fuck _ \- I think my knee… It might be broken.” Lestrade grunted as he fisted the material of his pant leg tightly. His left leg was lying at an unnatural angle, and Sherlock could see how Lestrade’s knuckles were white and his tendons in his neck were tight with pain. His breaths sawed in and out of his chest harshly as he panted to regain his composure.

Sherlock heard John shuffling beside him. “Let me see.” He stumbled unsteadily over to the seventh-year. Sherlock took the time to examine his boyfriend thoroughly.  _ Conscious, walking, talking, uninjured. Thank fucking god.  _ Relief crashed over him like a tidal wave, causing the Hufflepuff to sink bonelessly back unto the dirty ground.

The blonde examined Lestrade’s limb quickly and thoroughly. “Not a break, but a serious dislocation. Might require an overnight stay in the Medical Wing, but you be as right as rain tomorrow morning,” as he spoke, his hands flew over Lestrade’s hunched form, wand tip glowing with healing spells.

“Are you sure you know what you’re doing?” grunted Lestrade. “My mum was an army medic. I’ve been studying medicine since before I found out I was a wizard. I’m just going to do a quick patch-up, but see Madam Pomfrey afterwards anyway.” With a swift movement, the sixth-year-turned-field-medic grasped Lestrade’s leg and yanked it back into place, ignoring Lestrade shout of pain. He severed a slip of his shirt with his wand, before elongating it and wrapping Lestrade’s leg firmly. Lestrade’s gasps and moans of agony echoed slightly in the pit.

Once that was done, John turned his attention to the Hufflepuffs. “Are both of you fine?” Molly nodded jerkily and Sherlock dipped his head slightly. John turned sharp eyes on Sherlock. “You’re not hiding anything from me, are you?” The brunette sighed. “I smacked my head on the ground when we landed, and my ribs took a bit of a hit, but at most I have a minor concussion and some bruising. Probably nothing more than what you or Molly have.”

John strode forward and knelt in front of his boyfriend. “I’ll feel better once I’ve made my own assessment.” The blonde then began asking Sherlock a series of questions: ‘ _ what year is it?’, ‘when is your birthday?’, ‘what do you think of Anderson?’, ‘where can you find a bezoar?’ _ ; to which Sherlock responded  _ ‘1988’, ‘6th of January, 1972’, ‘he is a moronic pig with fewer brains than a flobberworm’,  _ and  _ ‘in the stomach of a goat, obviously.’  _ Satisfied with Sherlock’s answers, John moved on to examining Sherlock’s ribs.

Once done, the Gryffindor sat back on his heels. “It’s as you suspected. Bruised ribs and a bump to the head, but no concussion, luckily.”

Sherlock nodded briefly. “I told you so. Catch on faster next time, John.” The shorter boy rolled his eyes. The Hufflepuff stood to his feet. “Now as for getting out… the walls are too steep to climb and too high for us to boost each other out. Lestrade and I are the tallest, but since Lestrade had gone and gotten himself injured-”

“It’s not as if I  _ wanted _ to dislocate my knee,” interrupted Lestrade, his voice still tight with pain. Molly moved over beside him and took his hand reassuringly. He shot her a grateful smile as Sherlock continued over him as if he hadn’t spoken: “-no one is coming to help us, as our attackers have most likely made sure no witnesses would be present-” 

“Wait, ‘attackers’?” asked John.

Sherlock sighed. “John, the road was perfectly safe before. We were walking on solid ground and a sinkhole in this part of Scotland is basically unheard of. The walls are smooth, and the pit is almost a perfect circle: someone set a trap for us by carving out a pit with magic, then placing a concealing charm over it. Think, John. Use your head next time.”

“But wouldn’t our attackers have shown themselves by now?” piped up Molly. Sherlock spun to face her. “No, they want to see us flounder in this hole.”

“‘They’? Sherlock, explain properly. We’re not Legilimens; we can’t read your mind,” huffed John.

“Moriarty and Andler set this trap. Most likely just for me, though John is a nice bonus. Molly and Lestrade are collateral damage; they couldn’t care less about you. They’ll be waiting for us when we climb out of here. They’re letting us make our own way out because Moriarty enjoys toying with us and Adler wants to test me.” said Sherlock absently, his mind running at one hundred miles a minute, calculating every possible outcome once they made their way out of the pit.

“Why would they attack us in the first place?” asked Lestrade.

“Honestly, Graham,” snapped Sherlock, “keep up! Moriarty wants to be challenged: he needs an equal to oppose him so, naturally, he targeted me. This is old news - he was the one who orchestrated the whole Jeff Hope-potions thing as well as getting Zi Zhu Yao to strangle me with my own scarf in our second year. Although those two got suspended, there was no evidence of Moriarty’s involvement.

Adler and Moriarty have an agreement: she does some of his dirty work, and he provides protection for her so she can sleep around as she pleases. For some reason, she took a liking to me. I turned her down, and now she’s coming after me like a trophy to be collected.”

John’s eyes had narrowed at the mention of Irene Adler. Sherlock told him what had occurred with the Slytherin seventh-year, and John believed him when he said nothing had happened between them. In fact, he felt enraged that a witch who was of legal age had propositioned a younger student, and was now hunting him like prey to be devoured.

The Gryffindor snapped out of his reverie when Sherlock drew his wand from his pocket. “Sherlock?”

The taller boy started to wave his wand at the wall. He muttered a spell under his breath and slowly, he started to hack and carve away a staircase that would lead them to the surface. John and Molly slung Greg’s arms over their shoulders and followed the Hufflepuff as he cleared the way before them. When they reached the surface, a clapping noise greeted them.

“Well, Sherlock, I must say I am impressed by your deductions down there. Everything you said is spot on,” sang Moriarty, his soft Irish tones lilting to and fro. Adler strode forward and leaned into Sherlock’s space. John’s grip on Greg’s arm tightened imperceptively. The girl smirked dangerously and snaked a pale hand out, ghosting over Sherlock’s lapels. “Hello, sexy. Let’s have dinner.” The Hufflepuff merely stared at her, his lip curling slightly. “Ms Adler, if you would please remove your lust-filled husk of a brain from my presence.” The teasing smile dropped from Adler’s blood-red lips. “Come now, darling. I’m sure I can show you a much better time than  _ Watson _ .” She spat out John’s name as if it left a bad taste in her mouth.

By this point, Molly and Greg had moved off to the side, and John had made his way to stand next to his boyfriend, who took his hand firmly. “I have told you before, Ms Adler. I am  _ not interested _ .” Adler opened her mouth to argue, but before she could say anything, Moriarty let out a harsh bark of laughter.

“Oh Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock. Look at you: so sentimental! If I didn’t know how useful John Watson would be to me, I would even say he had turned you into an  _ ordinary _ person,” he sneered.

“Is being ordinary so bad?” whispered Sherlock. They froze. The Hufflepuff continued. “Is it so bad if I could express my feelings without difficulty? Is it so bad if I didn’t see  _ everything _ around me? Is it so bad if I could care for John Watson openly and not have people look surprised at my affection?”

John gripped Sherlock’s hand tighter, an unspoken  _ ‘I’m here’. _ Sherlock seemed to be bolstered by John’s support. “Being ordinary may seem terrible to you, Jim, but it’s what I want most second only to having John be by my side at all times. So if affection and emotions make me ordinary, then so be it.”

Silence. Nobody breathed. Then Moriarty threw back his head and cackled. The laugh stretched on and on, before petering off slightly.

“So does this mean I won?” hiccuped Moriarty, “Does this mean you are forfeiting the game?”

Sherlock nodded. “I was happy to be a part of your schemes, Jim. They kept my own boredom at bay. That was until I entered a relationship with John. I will always thirst for knowledge. I will always want to prove that I am right, that I am the smartest. But if my own drive to boost my ego puts John in danger? Like falling ten meters into a trap set for  _ me _ ? Then no. I will happily set myself aside in order to protect John Watson and my friends. They belong to me, Moriarty. And I, to them. So if you even  _ think _ about harming them, I will show no mercy.” Sherlock drew his wand and pointed it straight at the Slytherin sixth-year.

“Not so fast, darling.” A wand tip jabbed harshly into Sherlock’s bruised ribs, causing the Hufflepuff to flinch slightly. Alder bared her teeth. “Don’t forget about me, Sherlock. I’m hurt that you’d neglect me.”

“And I hope  _ you _ didn’t forget  _ me _ , either.” John nudged his wand at the back of her neck. “I’ve never liked the sound of you, Irene Adler. Touch him again, and I’ll tear you to shreds. Sherlock Holmes is  _ mine, _ ” he snarled.

Sherlock, distracted by what was going on slight behind him, lowered his wand a fraction. In that moment of distraction, Moriarty silently drew his own wand.

_ “Conjunctivitis!” _

The Hufflepuff cried out as his vision exploded in white light. He doubled over scrubbing at his eyes as if to wipe away the effects of the spell. John roared in anger and cast a blasting curse at Moriarty - who dived out of the way - and hastily put up a shield charm to block Adler’s stunning spell.

By this point, Sherlock’s eyesight was spotty but passible. Passible enough to see the lightning Moriarty had conjured.

_ “Protego!” _

The lightning dissolved against the shield and Sherlock countered with a stream of water that wrapped around Moriarty in a firm grip. It lifted the Slytherin into the air, before plummeting him towards the ground.

A hastily shouted  _ “Molliare!”  _ was the only thing that stopped Moriarty’s face from being smashed into the ground.

Meanwhile, John was having trouble getting a lock on Adler. Unfortunately, she was of age so she had learnt how to apparate already, and since they were not on Hogwarts grounds, she could appear and disappear as she pleased. John was stuck spinning in circles trying to catch her but was always too late.

An idea struck him.  _ “Colloshoo!" _

Adler yelped as her shoes were stuck fast to the ground, causing her to lurch as she tried to move. John followed up with a swift  _ “Glacius”, _ causing Adler to freeze into a solid block of ice. Immediately, her wand tip started to glow, melting away the ice. Quickly, he cast an  _ “Immobulus!”  _ and an _ “Incarcerous!”  _ to keep her from attacking him from behind. While he was tying her up, he heard Molly timidly whisper  _ “Accio Adler’s wand” _ and saw it zoom off into the bushes, where Adler would not be able to find it. John tossed a quick ‘thanks’ over his shoulder before turning to help Sherlock.

However, the Hufflepuff seemed to have everything under control. Moriarty had turned into a large silver wolf (because of course, he was an illegal animagus), but Sherlock had him at bay with a steady stream on Knockback jinxes. It was obvious that Sherlock was just playing with him. John strode over to Sherlock’s side leisurely.

“So, what should we do about them?” asked John.

“Hmm, I think Professor Snape would have something interesting to say about this.” hummed Sherlock thoughtfully. Throughout the years, Sherlock and Snape have maintained their amicable relationship. Sherlock still went to Snape first if he needed an adult’s help, even over his own Head of House, Sprout. Snape, in turn, favoured Sherlock even more than his own Slytherins. It was obvious that Snape saw a resemblance between them, and took care of Sherlock in his own unique way, so if he knew about how Moriarty and Ander had attacked them without provocation, he would be most unamused.

Sherlock seemed to decide that he had enough of tossing Moriarty around. He cast a stunning spell at the wolf, which dropped bonelessly to the ground. The Hufflepuff turned and smiled at John slightly, who grinned back and took his hand. “Let’s not get in a habit of duelling on our Hogsmead weekends,” said the Gryffindor. “You love it really,” smirked Sherlock. John just laughed and shook his head. They turned back to the unconscious wolf but found that, to their shock, the wolf was gone.

“Fuck! He must have been faking it. A wolf has thicker skin than a human. It must take more than one stunning spell to knock it out,” said Sherlock warily, spinning in a circle to come back to back with John.

The two stood ready amongst the fallen snow, a motionless and helpless Adler a couple of meters away. John made sure to keep an eye on her just in case she too managed to escape.

They waited for Moriarty to make his move, but nothing came at them. Unwilling to let down their guard, they waited some more. They barely breathed as the silence echoed around them.

“Maybe he ran to save his own skin?” whispered John. Sherlock shook his head. “No, he wouldn’t do that. He’s waiting for until he finds an opening. Do not let you guard down.”

Another tense few minutes passed as nothing happened. “Sherlock. I think he’s gone,” said John, relaxing slightly.

“No! John, you have to trust me. He’s still here!” cried Sherlock. John touched his trembling shoulder gently. “Moriarty isn’t here, Sherlock.”

“John, I know his psychology. He’s just lying in wait. We have to be ready!” argued Sherlock.

John sighed. “Sher-”

“JOHN, LOOK OUT!”

_ “Lacarnum inflamarae!” _

The next thing John knew he was face first in the snow. He groaned and lifted his head out of the cold whiteness. His eyes widened in horror at what greeted him.

Sherlock was lying on his back, eyes closed, body limp. His coat and shirt had been burnt away at the front, leaving his chest exposed to the chilly winter air. Where the skin was visible, it was mutilated and steaming. John gasped as what happened registered in his brain.

Moriarty must have attacked from behind John, aiming at his vulnerable back. Sherlock would have seen him over John’s shoulder and pushed him out of the way. John recognised the fire spell from their fifth-year Defence class.

John felt an icy chill wash over him that had nothing to do with the weather.  _ Sherlock wasn’t breathing. _

Ignoring the gleeful sound of Moriarty cackling behind him, John dashed forward as fast as his shaking legs could propel him and dropped down beside Sherlock. He took his pulse. Nothing.

“Oh god, please, no.” His voice shook with tears. “Sherlock?”

His hands hovered uselessly over the Hufflepuff’s damaged chest. “Oh god, what do I do?” Then, the steady voice of his mother sounded in his head.  _ ‘First, his breathing has to be restored, and his heart has to keep pumping blood to his brain. Start chest compressions. The lack of air is more dangerous than the wound itself.’ _

John brought his hands together over his boyfriend’s heart and pushed down. He started the chest compressions in earnest, tears dripping down his face as his fingers slid over the bloody wound. He could feel the mangled flesh under his palms. John sobbed as he realised his foolishness was what caused Sherlock to push him out of the way.

_ “No! John, you have to trust me. He’s still here!” _

_ ‘Trust me,’ _ he had said. John didn’t. He ignored Sherlock’s warnings and now his boyfriend was lying in the snow, pulse gone and breathing non-existent.

John stopped the chest compressions and switched to breathing for Sherlock. He tipped his chin back, pinched Sherlock’s nose shut, and sealed his lips over Sherlock’s slack ones, before breathing into his mouth. Out of all the kisses they have shared, John hated this one the most. Sherlock always,  _ always, _ responded. But now, Sherlock’s lips were lifeless and still. John wanted to scream.

There was some sort of scuffle behind him, and he heard Moriarty cry out in shock. John switched back to chest compressions and looked over his shoulder.

Greg was standing there, his own wand in his right hand and Adler’s in his left. He was leaning on his right leg heavily, but he was standing over Moriarty like an avenging angel.

“You know, Moriarty, you’re usually pretty smart. But you failed to account for one thing: Sherlock has more than one friend. And you hurt him. I don’t take that kind of thing lightly.” Both wands glowed. The seventh-year disarmed Moriarty and quickly immobilised him before tying him up, much the same way John did with Adler, who was still lying a little ways off.

The older Gryffindor hobbled over to John, before collapsing at his side. “How is he?”

John shook his head fearfully. “He stopped breathing and his pulse is so faint I can’t tell if it’s there. We need to get him to Madam Pomfrey.  _ Now. _ ”

“Molly’s gone into the village to find someone. But how can I help right now?” Greg’s expression was grim.

“Continue chest compressions. I’ll breathe for him.”

And so, the next few minutes continued this way. Both John and Greg’s hands were slick with the Hufflepuff’s blood, causing them to gag slightly at the slippery sensation. God, they were still only teenagers, and here they were, performing life-saving techniques on their friend.

Both boys were crying. Sherlock still hadn’t responded. It had been ten minutes since Moriarty’s attack. Then-

A choking noise came from the body below them. John immediately sat up as Sherlock began to twitch. “Oh thank fuck.” The Hufflepuff’s heart started up again and his lungs stuttered into action. John sobbed loudly in relief and pulled his gasping boyfriend to his chest. Greg sagged beside him.

“What happened?” croaked Sherlock.

John just cried louder, shaking his head. Tears ran unending down his face, adding to Sherlock’s already snow-soaked hair.

Greg spoke up. “You pushed John out of the way of Moriarty’s fireball. It hit you instead and your pulse and breathing stopped. We’ve been performing chest compressions and breathing for you for ten minutes now.”

Sherlock turned foggy eyes on John. The blonde was a wreck.  _ Crying; hitched breathing; swollen lips; shaking hands; trembling body; won’t look me in the eye. Breathing for me for a long period of time: matches with Lestrade’s statement. Guilty. Terrified. Oh, John. _

He reached out a trembling hand and brushed John’s cheek gently, wiping away the tears, only to be replaced with more. “John, it’s not your fault.”

“But it was,” came the whimpered reply, “I should have listened to you, I should have  _ trusted _ you. Because I didn’t, you got hurt protecting me. Do you know what it was like seeing you lying there, basically dead? I could feel my heart disintegrating in my chest and all I could do was try to keep you here with me. This is all my fault. I’m so sorry, Sherlock. I’m so so so sorry,” he sobbed.

Sherlock hushed him gently. “John, it was my choice. I don’t blame you. It’s over now, let us forget it.” John was brought back to reality as Sherlock groaned when he tried to sit up. “No, wait! Your wound still hasn’t been tended to.”

Just then, a voice sounded through the trees. “John! Greg!” Molly was running towards them at full speed, Snape following closely behind her. She gasped when she saw Sherlock hunched over, obviously wounded, and John’s tear-streaked face. “What happened?”

Snape walked briskly until he came to a stop beside them. He dropped down to one knee, ignoring the way the snow immediately soaking into the fabric. “Sherlock. Tell me what happened. Watson, move out of the way while I tend to him.”

“No!” Snape looked visibly surprised as both Sherlock and John loudly protested. “No. He stays here,” said Sherlock firmly. Snape sighed through his nose. “Foolish boy. I didn’t say he had to leave. He just has to give me some working room. Use your head, Holmes.”

Sherlock ducked his chin petulantly. “Considering I took a fireball to the chest and was technically dead, I think I have the right to be a little muddled.” Molly choked in shock. “ _ You what?” _ she yelped.

Snape narrowed his eyes. “Explain.” He took out his wand and waved it in a circle. The snow cleared around them and the ground became soft and warm, like a heated bed. The boys sighed in relief at the warmth. Snape started to hover his wand slowly over Sherlock’s burnt skin. Immediately, the wound began to close and the blood flow slowed significantly. This continues for a while Sherlock explained clearly what had happened: “The four of us were just walking along the trail when the ground opened up beneath us. We fell about ten meters into a pit. Lestrade suffered a dislocated knee which John took care of.” Here, Snape glanced over at Lestrade’s bandaged knee. He nodded at the neat bindings. “His injury can wait until we get back to the school.” He gestured for Sherlock to continue. “Moriarty and Adler had set the trap for me. Once we made our way out, we conversed briefly before they attacked us. John and I duelled them. He managed to take out Adler-” he gestured to the girl; Snape glared darkly at her shivering form, “-but Moriarty is an illegal animagus. He transformed into a wolf. I shot a stunning spell at him, and he faked being unconscious. He caught us off guard and aimed a fireball at John’s back, so I pushed him out of the way. The next thing I know, John and Lestrade are sitting beside me looking distraught. They told me that I had stopped breathing and my heartbeat was nowhere to be found. They had been performing the muggle technique CPR on me for ten minutes.”

Snape turned to John. “And how did you deal with Moriarty?”

John shook his head. “I didn’t. Greg did. I was trying to save Sherlock, and he took Moriarty out while he was distracted with Sherlock.”

The potions master turned incredulous eyes towards Lestrade. “You managed to eliminate the threat with a dislocated knee?”

Lestrade shrugged. “He hurt my friends. And I had two wands. Adler’s,” he said by way of explanation at Snape’s curious look. “I see,” said the teacher. “All of you have acted admirably. Lestrade, your courageous act will certainly please Minerva.” Lestrade ducked his head in embarrassment. “Hooper, your swift actions allowed for Sherlock to get him the help he needed.” The girl squeaked at the unexpected compliment from the usually harsh potions master. He turned to John. “Watson, your knowledge of medicine and healing has saved two of your friends from permanent harm.” John merely nodded, eyes still dull and hollow. Snape’s brow twitched at the subdued response. 

Sherlock’s eyebrows also furrowed with discontent: John was hiding something. He tried to think about what it was and came to the conclusion that John was still feeling guilty. He reached out and took his slack hand. John acknowledged him with a tiny smile but removed his hand from Sherlock’s. “Sir, I think it’s best if you get Sherlock and Greg to the Medical Wing. Their injuries require further healing,” he said tonelessly. Snape nodded. “Indeed.” He conjured four stretchers out of thin air and levitated Sherlock, Lestrade, Adler and Moriarty onto them. The dark-haired man waved the stretchers along, leaving Molly and John to follow along behind them.

John could feel Sherlock’s piercing silver gaze on his face but kept his eyes turned downwards. Molly nudged him softly. “John? Are you okay?”

“I’m fine, Molly.” He continued to stare at the ground. Molly frowned. “John-”

“Please, just leave it alone, Molls,” pleaded John. She nodded hesitantly. “Alright. But make sure you and Sherlock talk later. I hate seeing you so upset.” The group continued to walk along in silence.

* * *

**4:12 pm Nov 23 1988.**

John sat at a sleeping Sherlock’s bedside in the Medical Wing. Madam Pomfrey had been pleased with John emergency treatment and had even offered to tutor him in magical ways of healings on the weekends. John had thanked her profusely and accepted. However, the excitement he had felt then drained away once more as he watched his boyfriend’s chest rise and fall.

Lestrade was snoring in the next bed and Molly had gone down to the kitchen to grab some comfort food, so John was left to sit restlessly beside Sherlock’s bed.

The door creaked open to admit Snape, McGonagall, Sprout and Dumbledore. John dipped his head in greeting before turning back to stare unblinkingly at Sherlock’s face.

“Mr Watson,” began McGonagall, “Professor Snape has informed the staff of what had occurred this afternoon. Rest assured, Mr Moriarty and Ms Adler have been expelled, and their wands snapped. They are currently gathering their belongings and will be making their way out of Hogwarts by supper time.” John nodded blankly. “Gryffindor and Hufflepuff have also been awarded fifty points each, for your outstanding courage and loyalty to your friends,” continued Sprout.

“Thank you, Professor,” said John.

“Mr Watson, is everything alright?” asked Dumbledore, in that soft, benign way of his. John just shrugged. “I spent ten minutes trying to keep my boyfriend from dying in my arms, which was my fault in the first place anyway. I had to do chest compressions on him, but his wound was directly over his heart so I had to push my bare hands  _ into  _ his wound in order to save his life. I could smell his burning flesh and feel his blood covering my arms, all because he took a hit meant for me. He  _ sacrificed _ himself to save me - I don’t understand why people say Sherlock Holmes doesn’t have a heart, because I felt it stop and I am never going to forget what it was like to find out the person I love with my entire body and soul had just thrown his life away to protect me.”

Silence followed his little speech. Then-

“John.”

The Gryffindor whipped his head around to stare at Sherlock. The Hufflepuff’s eyes were mere slits and it was clear that he wasn’t entirely lucid. “John. Not your fault. Love you too.” And with that, the curly-haired boy fell back into the darkness’ waiting embrace.

John was left gasping in shock.  _ ‘Love you too.’  _ They had never explicitly said those words aloud the entire time they were dating. John out of fear of being rejected, and Sherlock out of an inability to form the words. But in John’s emotionally charged speech and Sherlock’s half-asleep state, the little phrase slipped out as naturally as breathing. John let out a breathy laugh.  _ Sherlock loved him. _ He started to laugh louder, even as tears dripped down his face. Completely ignoring the four staff members behind him, John brought Sherlock’s hand to his lips and pressed a tender kiss against his knuckles.

“Okay, Sherlock. It’s not my fault. Sleep well, my love. I’ll be here when you wake up.”

**Author's Note:**

> So there you have it. Sherlock is whipped. John is whipped. Lestrade is a BAMF. Molly is a cinnamon roll.
> 
> A few things: I hope Sherlock isn't too OOC. It's just that he's quite young when he meets John, who teaches Sherlock how emotions aren't always a bad thing, so Sherlock is going to end up a bit more open and less sociopathic than he does in the show. He can still be an ass when he wants to though. Also, I have no medical training whatsoever apart from using band-aids, so take everything I write about with a pinch of salt. Plus, I think CPR is a pretty Muggle thing, I just can't picture wizards knowing how to do stuff like that. John is a half-blood, so he's more familiar with the Muggle stuff cuz of his mom (which is not canon btw). Greg can help him even though he is a pure-blood cuz he was watching John do it. 
> 
> I originally had this whole plan that required all four Quidditch teams, so I scoured the internet for recognisable Sherlock characters, and sorted them into each house and gave them roles in the teams. Here's my list just in case you guys wanted to have a look.
> 
> Gryffindor:  
> Keeper - Greg Lestrade (Captain)  
> Chaser - Sally Donovan  
> Chaser - Stella Hopkins (the DI)  
> Chaser - Ajay Agra (just known as 'Ajay' in the show, but I gave him the last name 'AGRA' cuz I thought it was clever)  
> Beater - John Watson (beaters are underrated: they basically whack metal balls at people at high velocity)  
> Beater - Janine Hawkins (female beaters are badass)  
> Seeker - Jerry Dimmock (just known as 'DI Dimmock', but he looked like a Jerry to me, so he's called Jerry now)
> 
> Hufflepuff:  
> Keeper - Henry Knight  
> Chaser - Sarah Sawyer (Captain, because she deserves some sort of reward for the sh*t she went through on the show)  
> Chaser - Stephen Bainbridge  
> Chaser - Faith Smith (the real one, not the Eurus one. Eurus is an owl now, anyway)  
> Beater - Angelo Cane (just known as 'Angelo' in the show, but I gave him the last name 'Cane' cuz of the scene with the cane. Duh)  
> Beater - Isaac Whitney (the junkie kid that John finds with Sherlock in a drug den)  
> Seeker - Soo Lin Yao (I debated putting her in Ravenclaw, but I wanted to include her in the story, so she is now a Hufflepuff)
> 
> Slytherin:  
> Keeper - Charles Agustus Magnussen (Captain, 'keeper of secrets' and all that jazz)  
> Chaser - Irene Adler (chasing after all of that ass amiright)  
> Chaser - Jeff Hope  
> Chaser - Zi Zhu Yao (just known as 'Zi Zhu' in the show, but since he is Soo Lin's bro, he gets her surname as well)  
> Beater - Sebastian Moran (the closest thing to a hitman on the Quidditch pitch is a beater)  
> Beater - Oscar Dzundza (aka the Golem)  
> Seeker - Jim Moriarty (always seeking a distraction)
> 
> Ravenclaw: I feel bad because there weren't many Ravenclaws in my fic. For all you Ravenclaw peeps out there, sorry. But you have Mycroft, at least! Hehe...  
> Keeper - Lotus Shan (just known as 'General Shan' in the show, but because the group is called the 'Black Lotus', I took 'Lotus' as her first name)  
> Chaser - Elizabeth Smallwood (Captain)  
> Chaser - Anthea Blackberry (just known as 'Anthea' in the show, but she's always on her blackberry, so that's her last name now. Originally I wanted her to be Mycroft's owl, but then I changed my mind and went with Eurus, cuz Eurus is named after a wind; it's an owl... yeah)  
> Chaser - Bill Wiggins (the only dude on the Ravenclaw team, because we need more clever, sporty girls out there)  
> Beater - Vivian Norbury (the creepy shark lady who killed Mary in the show; I still don't understand how a room full of MI6 agents and policemen were unable to stop an old lady from firing a gun. Moffat, Gatiss... explain please)  
> Beater - Jacqui Stapelton (the glowing rabbit scientist lady from Hounds of Baskerville)  
> Seeker - Jennifer Wilson (the pink lady who carved out 'Rachel' on a wooden floor with her fingernails, like, that is both smart and badass)
> 
> Ok, thanks for reading, y'all. Have a nice day! (P.S. and for those of you who are waiting for the series of sequels for my Merlin fic, it's coming up. I wanted to write this first before starting those, so I'm open for business now :D)


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